The whole city is a cocoon waiting to be unpacked.
Believers in the twin towers of politics and religion are snooping in the dark, black market prosthetics doctors are trying to dismantle and reshape the body, and obsessives are burning out on the edge of desire and divine enlightenment. Perdition is not a gift.
Tonight, the vending machine spits out amber candies with baby teeth, and the dusty "Lamb Devouring the Stars" in the museum's secret room is recoloring. Interlaced umbilical cords hang from the tip of the bell tower, and cherry tree roots pierce the earth's crust. Fluorescent, hungry, and collared breeders stand with bated breath, finally hearing - the New God's rumination echoing deep in the earth's core.
Intention: Thank the sun.
